


gone & on my mind

by Anonymous



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Do Not Archive, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Literal Sleeping Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Overstimulation, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Spoilers for S4, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, cant believe im finally done with this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 15:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19176403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Hamid doesn’t know what he was expecting. For Zolf to try and have a conversation with him, these five weeks later? For the chance to sayI’m so glad you’re okay? For Zolf to hold him tightly, to say something likeyou’re an idiotwithout letting go?





	gone & on my mind

Hamid doesn’t know what he was expecting. For Zolf to try and have a conversation with him, these five weeks (nineteen months) later? For the chance to say _I’m so glad you’re okay_? For Zolf to hold him tightly, to say something like _you’re an idiot_ without letting go? 

Hamid doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t Zolf slamming him into the wall and demanding, _“Who are you?”_

Hamid stills, stares, stutters, “Who– Zolf, you _know—”_

Zolf is so close, too close, not close enough. He snarls, _“Hamid’s_ dead. Vanished in some fucking portal, always the hero. Who are _you?”_

Oh. 

Oh, he’s been gone for so long— it makes _sense,_ that the way Zolf is looking at him is Hamid’s fault. It still hurts, still makes him soften, still makes his heart splinter. Zolf must see it in his expression because his hold on Hamid’s shirt tightens. “Don’t you _dare_ look at me like that,” he growls, and Hamid might start crying. He reaches up slowly, circles Zolf’s wrist with his fingers.

Zolf looks about to punch him. “My name is Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan,” Hamid says gently, “this is my old bedroom, repurposed as a safe room for my big sister’s Resistance. I came here before now, three days after losing my eldest sister in Prague. Six… six days after losing you.” And he probably doesn’t care, but Hamid feels the need to quietly add, “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.” Zolf is shaking. Hamid carefully begins easing Zolf’s fingers off of his collar. 

Zolf doesn’t let him, squeezes tighter, pushes Hamid just that little bit harder against the wall. Hamid is finding it hard to breathe. “Anyone could tell me that,” Zolf says. His voice is shaking along with his hand, with anger and with something like desperation. 

“Who could tell you about my panic attack after Kew? The one you helped me out of?” Zolf’s grip loosens. “Or about when you pinned me to the wall of the null room in Le Triomphe?” Zolf lets go, but he doesn’t move away. “Or about on the airship, when—” Hamid swallows— “when you said that you might love me?” Zolf stares at him. Hamid stares back, defiantly hopeful, praying his face isn’t too flushed. He doesn’t know if Zolf remembers. None of it mattered to him as much as it did to Hamid, but maybe it wasn’t completely forgotten, either.

“Hamid,” Zolf breathes. Hamid smiles shakily up at him, and Zolf keeps watching him like the second he blinks, Hamid will disappear again. Hamid understands; he’s more than a little scared to stop looking at Zolf. “Hamid,” Zolf says even softer, and then Hamid is being pressed into the wall again as Zolf kisses him. “You’re okay,” he mumbles, maybe an inch away from Hamid’s mouth, “I can’t believe you’re okay.” Hamid kisses back, sets his hands on Zolf’s waist, smiles against Zolf’s mouth. “You were gone,” Zolf whispers, eyes closed, his forehead pressed against Hamid’s.

Hamid laughs like all the air has been stolen from his lungs. “Well. I’m here now.” Zolf pulls him closer, kisses him again. Hamid hums contentedly. He missed this. Missed the way Zolf held him, missed how Zolf felt pressed against him, missed Zolf’s lips against his own.

Zolf pulls back, inspects Hamid’s face closely. Hamid runs his thumb up and down across one of Zolf’s lower ribs and lets himself be inspected. “You’re still so handsome,” Zolf murmurs after a brief moment. Hamid doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t _that._ His face must flush because Zolf takes a hasty step back, apology writ across his features. “Sorry,” he says, “that wasn’t—”

Hamid hugs him before he can continue. “It’s alright.” It’s desperate, the way Hamid clings to him, a last-ditch effort to keep Zolf from going too far. Embarrassing, pitiful, pathetic. Hamid’s been through so much without him, but the very instant he sees Zolf again, he’s back to old habits. Back to old routines, where he pretends not to be utterly infatuated while holding on as tightly to Zolf as he possibly can.

Zolf awkwardly pats him on the back. Hamid laughs, but he doesn’t draw away, holding tightly until Zolf settles his hand lower, at the curve of his spine. Hamid does pull back then, smiling up at Zolf.

Zolf is still looking at him, something warm that Hamid is almost certainly misreading in his eyes, and Hamid fights down a sudden wave of anxiety before asking, “I– is it alright if I sleep with you tonight?” Zolf makes a slightly choked noise of shock, and Hamid takes a step back as he hastily clarifies, “Not like sex! I just– I-I don’t want any nightmares? And I missed y– a-and I understand if you don’t want that, or if—” Hamid has a sudden, mortifying realisation that makes him take another step back, bumping into the wall— “if you found someone else– actually! Just! Forget I said anything! It’s fine; you don’t ha– um, don’t worry about it.” Zolf blinks at him, and Hamid rather wishes he could turn around and run back out of the safe room without another word.

Zolf tries to formulate words for a long, _painfully_ uncomfortable moment before apparently giving up and pulling Hamid back against him. Hamid freezes. He rigidly attempts to hug Zolf back, sure that at any second Zolf is going to explain that actually, he only really thinks of Hamid as a vague acquaintance with benefits and that sleeping in the same bed without anything happening first would be weird. “It’d be alright,” Zolf says after a moment, “I mean, if we share a room, it means no one else will have to deal with your nightmares.” Hamid melts with relief, even if it’s just Zolf being selfless and not forcing anyone else to deal with Hamid’s bad dreams.

(Hamid doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t Zolf sighing into his hair and repeating _you’re okay_ so quietly Hamid shouldn’t have been able to hear him. It sounds like he means something else. It _sounds_ like he means— Hamid doesn’t think about it.)

(Hamid isn’t much help to the Resistance, even with his spells. He’s too important, too cared for to be let out onto the front lines. It makes him angry, and he and Saira get into a shouting match. He was gone. She doesn’t want to lose him for good. But he’s here now, and what’s the point of all this if he can’t help?)

(They’ll talk about it tomorrow.)

“Are we going to talk about it?” 

Zolf doesn’t look up at him, stays focused on getting his boots off. “Talk about what?”

(Hamid is descended from a Meritocrat, and Zolf is a separatist, and Hamid doesn’t know what that might mean for their friendship.)

Hamid sits down on the bed. It sags under him, slightly, the way the beds he’d gotten used to didn’t. “All of it?” Hamid suggests quietly. 

(Hamid is descended from a Meritocrat, and Zolf is a separatist, and Hamid doesn’t know what that might mean for his own fond heart, so ready to beat out of his chest and into Zolf’s hands.) 

Zolf still doesn’t look at him. He continues tugging off the laces of his boots as he says, “I don’t know. Probably not.” Hamid nods. He doesn’t know what he was expecting.

(Hamid doesn’t seem to know much of anything, these days.)

(Zolf’s hair is longer, as if to prove that time has passed. He has it carefully braided back, held in place and decorated with blue and green beads. It’s pretty. Hamid wonders how much Zolf would mind if he ran his fingers through the braids, if he gently tangled his hands amidst the sea of sparkling glass and soft-looking blond hair. He’d probably mind a lot. Hamid keeps his hands to himself, but he watches carefully as Zolf undoes the braids.)

(There are more scars on Zolf’s back, slashing through the fading inked artworks that Hamid could spend hours tracing over. They look painful, or at least like they were. There’s also a new tattoo on his right shoulder blade of what looks like the four suits. Hamid can’t help but smile.)

Hamid looks back at his own folded hands as Zolf turns around. There’s a moment of silence, and Hamid is waiting for Zolf to tell him to get out or to come closer. Zolf doesn’t. Hamid looks up at him cautiously, only to find him staring. “What?” Zolf shrugs.

“Nothing. Just—” he finally, finally, _finally_ sits down on the bed next to Hamid— “you look different.”

Hamid laughs. _“I_ look different,” he says, and Zolf screws his face up in annoyance. Hamid doesn’t want to overstep, but Zolf is _right there,_ so what is he supposed to do but reach out? What is he supposed to do except carefully hold Zolf’s face in his hand? What is he supposed to do except ask, “What about you?” Zolf doesn’t tense, exactly, but Hamid can feel him freezing.

Hamid should take his hand back. Hamid should let go. Hamid should apologise. But he doesn’t, he can’t, not when he’s finally got the chance to be here. “I, uh– what _about_ me?” Zolf asks, but he doesn’t move away. Hamid should take his hand back, should let go, should apologise, but the way Zolf is _looking_ at him. But the way he _leans into_ Hamid’s hand. 

(But the way Hamid’s heart _races.)_

Zolf closes his eyes, and he looks so tired. Worn out. Like a year and a half has aged him immeasurably, like Hamid being here is pushing him closer to his end. Maybe Hamid is.

(He looks _stunning._ Extraordinarily beautiful. Like a weathered statue that has stood sentry through so much, like something so carefully carved from marble that Hamid could spend hours examining him and never find all of the wonder still hidden beneath. Maybe Zolf would let him.)

Zolf is so close, too close, not close enough. Hamid doesn’t want to break the silence. “Your hair is longer,” he says anyway. “I’m pretty sure this scar is new.” Zolf smiles bitterly, eyes still closed, cheek still pressed against Hamid’s hand. Hamid smiles back, and he can feel it turning pained, can feel his eyes softening. “You’re happy– o-or. You’re not _mad_ that I’m here,” he manages, more breath than sentence.

Zolf _does_ open his eyes at that, and Hamid’s hand drops back into his lap, and Hamid’s heart drops into his stomach, and Hamid’s throat constricts like he’s trying not to cry. Zolf asks, “When was I?” Hamid can’t look at him, suddenly, bowing his head like the weight of the words he can’t ever say have chosen that moment to press down on him. “Hamid.” Hamid doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t anything so gentle.

Hamid shrugs without looking up. “I only– you didn’t want to see me, in Prague, and I didn’t think you would want to now.” Zolf sighs. Hamid doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t Zolf shuffling closer and kissing Hamid’s temple. Hamid doesn’t mean to make a slightly wounded noise and press closer, but he does, and Zolf doesn’t comment. “Sorry,” Hamid whispers.

“It’s alright,” Zolf whispers back.

(Hamid can’t let himself get used to this. Hamid needs to sleep in his own bed. Hamid doesn’t know what he’ll do when Zolf stops letting him stay.)

Zolf pulls back, eventually, and Hamid jerks upright as soon as he does. “Hey, no, it’s– I’m just tired. Come here?” And he says it like a question, like he’s worried Hamid will leave, like there’s even the possibility of Hamid not getting as close as possible. 

(Hamid takes every bit of affection Zolf is willing to give him, and he tells himself that it’s enough.)

Zolf drums his fingers absentmindedly on Hamid’s hip. And Hamid wasn’t going to break the silence, wasn’t going to make the same mistake, but the more things change, the more they stay the same. “I forgot how nice this is,” Hamid murmurs. 

(It isn’t what he means. Hamid said _I don’t know how much I helped_ and _I’m here_ and _if there’s one thing I believe in, it’s you_ and it all meant _I love you.)_

Zolf stills, and then the hand at Hamid’s hip pulls at him. Hamid presses back immediately, too eager for more contact, more affection, more heat. “Yeah,” Zolf answers quietly, and there’s something in his voice that Hamid has to be misreading, “you’re warm.” 

But it sounds like—  
But the way he holds Hamid closer—  
But his voice is so soft that maybe he means—

(Hamid doesn’t say _I love you._ Hamid doesn’t say _I love you._ Hamid doesn’t say _I love you.)_

(They don’t speak, after that. Hamid’s too caught up in the way Zolf fits into his space. Gods, Hamid _missed_ this. Missed the way Zolf held him, missed Zolf’s warmth against his back, missed Zolf’s breathing slowing down alongside his own.)

(Hamid falls asleep somehow, butterflies flickering in his stomach all the while, and it’s nerve-wracking even as it makes him feel safe. He has nightmares, too many things have happened for him not to have nightmares, but there’s an arm wrapped tight around Hamid’s waist and something solid against his back. The nightmares fade out, and they’re replaced by half-formed dreams of _heat_ and _nerves_ and _need,_ lighting Hamid up from the inside.)

A veritable eternity of rest later, Zolf is warm and solid against him, and Hamid can feel hot breath on his neck. Hamid makes a pleased rumbling noise. He’s still mostly asleep, but the heat kindling just below his stomach brings him slowly to consciousness when he notices Zolf half-hard against his thigh. Zolf shakes, and Hamid can recognise laughter against his back. “Happy growling,” he mumbles into the back of Hamid’s neck, and he sounds so _fond,_ “weird little dragon.” Hamid rumbles again, fits himself further against Zolf, and Zolf’s breathing jolts when Hamid rubs against him.

_(Not like sex,_ Hamid rushed to clarify, but right now, he rather wishes he hadn’t.)

“Morning,” Hamid says, voice rough from sleep. 

Zolf tenses for a moment before starting to move away. “Sorry,” he says, “I wasn’t trying to—” Hamid presses back against him with a quiet whine— “t-to, uh,” he trails off. His fingers are digging into Hamid’s waist, and Hamid can feel him beginning to dig into his thigh, as well.

Hamid takes Zolf’s hand and moves it down between his legs. He murmurs, “It’s alright.” Zolf is unmoving against him, and Hamid can feel his heart rate stuttering. He’s read this wrong, he’s messed up, he’s come on too strong. “If– if you want..?” He doesn’t want to let his heart (his libido) do all of the thinking for once, doesn’t want to go too far too fast, doesn’t want to make Zolf uncomfortable. 

(Zolf looked so tired in that brewery. Hamid tried so hard to keep him from leaving, but he couldn’t. Hamid wasn’t convincing enough, wasn’t good enough, wasn’t in and of himself _enough_ to make Zolf stay.)

Zolf pulls Hamid flush against him and slides his hand under the waistband of Hamid’s pants before pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. Not uncomfortable, then.

(Hamid was so happy when he bought the opera tickets, and it wasn’t until he stepped outside that he realised Zolf was gone. Zolf wasn’t coming back. Hamid pressed against the bruises on his hip through his slacks, and they were still there, even though the person who made them wasn’t.)

Zolf is… _careful,_ Hamid thinks is the best word for it. Slow, making sure that Hamid is reacting the right way. He kisses down his throat slowly, he circles Hamid’s clit with his fingers _slowly,_ he drags Hamid into the fuzzy state of _need_ so damn slowly that Hamid _aches._ When Zolf finally, finally, _finally_ lets his hands slip lower, the insides of Hamid’s thighs feel practically coated in his own slick. “Good?” Zolf asks softly, tracing one finger along Hamid’s entrance.

Hamid turns around as much as he can, pulls Zolf into a kiss. It’s clumsy, and it’s soft, and it’s _perfect,_ and Hamid forgot how much he liked kissing Zolf. “Perfect,” Hamid answers, and Zolf kisses him again. Hamid moans when Zolf slides his fingers in, breaking the kiss in favour of melting into the bedsheets. “Oh,” he sighs, “that’s… keep going,” and he takes Zolf’s other hand in his own, tangling their fingers together. Zolf mouths at his neck, his jaw, presses a kiss to his cheek. Hamid says, “I missed this,” because it’s the closest thing to what he wants to say.

“Gods,” Zolf says, “I missed it, too.” And it almost sounds like– but then Zolf crooks his fingers and mumbles, “Fuck, you’re perfect,” and Hamid is a little too busy dissolving into a puddle of warm satisfaction and pleasure to think about it. “Do you know how pretty you sound?” He angles the heel of his palm so that it grinds against Hamid’s clit, and Hamid groans as he rocks into it. He turns his head back again, hoping Zolf gets the hint. 

Zolf does, kissing Hamid on the corner of his mouth as he presses a third finger in, and Hamid really can’t be held accountable for the way his back arches and his head lolls back. “I,” he gasps, but Zolf kisses his jaw as he slowly works Hamid open, and the words are suddenly jumbled in his head again. Zolf is careful, is slow, and Hamid might actually start crying at how good it all feels. “Can I,” he starts, but there are a million requests and only one he wants to voice and only one that he actually can, “Will you… do you want to fuck me?”

(Hamid wants to ask _can I kiss you again?_ Hamid wants to ask _will you pull me closer?_ Hamid wants to say _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ but he knows it’s not that kind of arrangement.)

Zolf doesn’t say anything, but Hamid can feel the sharp intake of breath against his back. And then Zolf manages, “I… yeah, but I– you sure?” Like there’s anything Hamid could deny him. Like there’s anything that might not make him need Zolf as close as he can get him. Like there’s anything Hamid could want more. Hamid hums, kisses the inside of Zolf’s wrist gently. “You don’t have to,” Zolf tells him, “you’re perfect however.” And the way he says it is so soft, and so kind, and so gentle. And that’s not the kind of arrangement this is, but absence makes the heart grow fonder, and gods know Hamid’s heart was already so damn fond.

His voice is coated in that fondness when he answers, “I’d like it, though.” And Zolf’s breathing turns shaky against him like Hamid’s just said something that wasn’t practically dripping with soft emotions he shouldn’t be having.

(Hamid knows better than anyone what fire feels like, in his heart and on his skin and licking at his heels. This? Now? What he feels when Zolf presses in and squeezes Hamid’s hand? This isn’t anything like fire. This is _lightning,_ and Zolf’s touch thrums _electric_ through his insides.)

Hamid doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t Zolf kissing the back of his neck and checking, “Still good?” Hamid can’t find the words to reassure him. Hamid missed this. Hamid missed _him._ “Still _here?”_ Zolf asks, half a joke but still tinged with worry, and his arm wraps tightly around Hamid’s waist. Something to ground him, keep him from feeling separated from his body, keep him firmly in his own head instead of drifting, half-removed from himself.

Hamid isn’t spiralling, though, isn’t falling into that separation he’s gotten ever more familiar with in the past month. How could he be? How could he be anywhere but settled in his own skin when Zolf is _right there?_ “Good,” he manages, and maybe it’s the feeling of being so filled, or maybe it’s that he can still taste Zolf on his lips, or maybe Zolf has been absent for so long that Hamid’s fond heart has spilt over, “yes, I’m… _gods,_ I’ve missed you.” He regrets it as soon as it’s out his mouth, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to take that back.

Zolf doesn’t miss a godsdamn beat. “I know,” he murmurs, “I know, I missed you too.” Hamid shouldn’t be anywhere near as emotional as he is, and yet. He kisses Zolf’s palm, Zolf’s knuckles, Zolf’s wrist, whatever he can reach. Zolf is slow, but for once, it isn’t maddening. For once, it feels _breathtaking._ Feels like he’s only just gotten back something he’s been missing. Feels like nothing could ever take him down from this high. “You’re so beautiful,” Zolf says, and there’s this blissed-out quality to his voice that makes Hamid turn even more pliant, “so handsome, so good to me. I forgot how perfect you are,” and Hamid really can’t be held accountable for the embarrassing noise he makes at that.

(Hamid forgot how praise affected him when it came in the form of half-breathless compliments right by his ear. Hamid forgot how praise affected him when it was from Zolf. Hamid forgot too much, and he feels guilty about not trying harder to keep it safe in his memory, but _gods_ if he’s not excited for Zolf reminding him.)

Zolf kisses his neck again, and his mouth forms words that Hamid can’t make out against his skin. _“Zolf,”_ Hamid pants, “fuck, I _missed–_ lo– _oh,_ Zolf, darling, _that’s—”_ but Hamid can’t find the words. Zolf keeps mouthing something into his jaw, but Hamid is too caught up to try and discern what it is. 

(Hamid wants to stay like this forever. Hamid wants a world where everything’s perfect, but failing that, he’d take any world so long as he could have Zolf.)

“You’re gorgeous,” Zolf rasps. Hamid whines and turns his head toward Zolf’s, but Zolf only kisses him on the cheek for a moment. He keeps mumbling compliments into Hamid’s neck, and Hamid can’t help but moan when Zolf pulls almost all the way out as he sucks a bruise into the space just below Hamid’s jaw. “You sound so pretty. Gods, I should have… wish I could see you, I want… you’re _precious_ to me; you know that? You’re perfect. I—” the words are what does it as much as the slow drag and sudden fullness of Zolf bottoming out, and Hamid lolls against him as he comes— _“fuck,_ I missed you.”

Hamid’s breathing turns shaky as Zolf keeps going, but it’s _too good_ and _too warm_ and _too much_ in the best kind of way, and Hamid gasps as lightning judders through him. Zolf rocks into him slowly, and the way the rhythm falters as Zolf gets closer threatens to make Hamid fall apart at how _good_ it feels. He pulls Zolf’s hand up to his mouth, kissing his palm and keeping himself quiet. He doesn’t say _I love you,_ he doesn’t say _I love you,_ he _does not say I love you._

(On the airship, Hamid was going to hold himself removed, going to focus on Zolf and then pull back completely, but the way Zolf _kissed_ him—)

(Hamid was going to get Zolf close and then go back to his book, make him understand what it was like to get the carpet ripped out from underneath his feet, but Zolf apologised so sincerely. Like he meant it. Like pushing Hamid away was something that had been haunting him. Like he’d been holding onto that guilt since it happened.)

_(Fuck, I think I love you_ Zolf murmured into his jaw, and for a moment, Hamid let himself believe it.)

Zolf swears, and he says _something,_ but _hell_ if Hamid is going to try and figure out what. He’s still mostly focused on the rhythm Zolf set that’s becoming more and more erratic. “Don’t stop,” Hamid chokes out. It’s _too good_ and _too warm_ and _too much,_ but Hamid is more than okay to keep going, more than okay to let Zolf take what he needs because it’s _so perfect._ “Zolf, _fuck,_ you’re s-so… _gods,_ don’t stop; feels good, you feel _so_ good,” and Zolf’s hand moves down, but Hamid grabs him by the wrist. “Focus on _you,”_ and the _sound_ that Zolf makes at that is going to stay in Hamid’s memory forever.

_“Hamid,”_ he says, sounding like one of Hamid’s more indecent daydreams, “fuck, I–”

And Hamid has that note of warning and desperation held carefully in his memory, and Hamid forgot too much but he could never forget how perfect Zolf sounds like this, and Hamid manages, “I’ve got you.” Fingers dig into Hamid’s stomach, Zolf grips his hand tightly.

(Gods, Hamid _missed_ this.)

Zolf sighs, relaxes against him. Hamid can’t help the gentle smile threatening at the edges of his mouth, but he can ignore it, so he kisses the inside of Zolf’s wrist without acknowledging the soft expression spreading across his face. Zolf huffs a laugh and kisses the back of his neck again. “Wanna clean up?” Zolf murmurs, and Hamid is careful when he Prestidigitates them both clean. He manages to get the temperature right, this time, and Zolf doesn’t comment. 

It takes too long for Hamid to get up the courage to ask, “What time is it?” Zolf groans and pulls him closer, burying his face in Hamid’s shoulder. 

(Hamid doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t Zolf being so casual, so easily caring.)

Zolf grumbles, “Early. I don’t want to check.” Hamid hums, letting go of Zolf’s wrist in order to carefully run fingers through his hair. Zolf smiles against Hamid’s skin, and Hamid really can’t be held accountable for the way his heart swells and his breath catches. “I missed you,” and it’s loud in the reverent silence Hamid has created.

Hamid wants to believe him. Hamid wants to let himself trust that he was important enough to Zolf that he wasn’t forgotten. Hamid wants to sink into that validation, wrap himself up in Zolf’s gentle words like a blanket, hold tight to the last shred of warmth that he’s liable to get from Zolf now that the morning is here. “Missed _me?”_ He’s holding tight to Zolf’s hand, still winding some of Zolf’s hair around his finger. “Or missed _this?”_ Hamid doesn’t know why he says it. The words are accusatory, but the way he says it comes across full of something like loneliness.

Zolf squeezes Hamid’s hand. Zolf asks, “Which answer won’t make you leave?”

But it sounds like—  
But the way his grip tightens—  
But his voice is so soft that maybe he means—

Hamid answers, “I couldn’t,” no air left in his lungs, “I couldn’t leave you. I _missed_ you.” It isn’t what he means. 

(Hamid’s said a million different things, and they’ve all meant _I love you so much I can hardly breathe, I love you like flames love my fingertips, I love you like you love the sea.)_

Zolf’s voice is soft, is shaky, is steeped in trepidation and terror when he asks, “Missed _me?_ Or…” Hamid turns around to find Zolf staring, his eyes full of something Hamid might not be misreading. The answer must show plainly on Hamid’s face because Zolf whispers, “There are better people to miss.” Hamid doesn’t know how he’s supposed to argue without losing whatever fragile moment they’re having, so he reaches out. So he smooths a thumb across Zolf’s cheekbone. So he kisses him.

Zolf kisses back slowly, carefully, softly, like he’s worried that Hamid is going to disappear. “I don’t care,” Hamid mumbles, maybe an inch away from Zolf’s mouth, “I missed _you._ I love _you,”_ and he’s expecting Zolf to stop dead.

But the _noise_ Zolf makes at that.   
But the _kiss_ Zolf gives him.

(And Hamid knows that he shouldn’t have said anything, but maybe, maybe, _maybe_ he didn’t ruin the one good thing he still has.)

“You—” Zolf stammers wordlessly, warm breath across Hamid’s mouth— “really? Me? Still?”

(And Hamid can’t open his eyes because he’s too terrified of what he’ll see, but Zolf’s voice is so _stunned._ Like Hamid’s said something incomprehensible. Like this is some foundation-shifting apotheosis. Like Hamid falling in love with him wasn’t inevitable.)

Hamid smiles, and it might even come across as happy instead of heartbroken. “Really,” he answers, “you. Still. For as long as you won’t turn me away. And after that, though I’ll be quieter about it.”

(And Hamid doesn’t know what he’s expecting, because Zolf kissed him instead of killing him, because Zolf is still here, because Hamid hasn’t been told to leave. He thinks he’s expecting something terrible, but maybe, maybe, _maybe—)_

A rough hand settles on Hamid’s cheek and pulls him in again. “How the hell could I turn you away?” Zolf inquires between kisses. “Why would I want to?” Hamid looks at him now, eyes fluttering open in something like anticipation, and Zolf is so beautiful Hamid might cry. There’s something so familiar in Zolf’s eyes that Hamid can’t be misreading as Zolf murmurs, “I love you, too.”

Hamid smiles, and Zolf smiles back, and Hamid would do everything, from Kew to the catacombs to Cairo again and again and again if only it meant he could find his way here. Hamid kisses him, and it’s supposed to be new. It’s supposed to say _I love you so much my heart might burst_ and it’s supposed to say _I love you like magic loves my veins_ and it’s supposed to say _I love you like you love what is just_ in the way that Hamid has never been able to voice until now.

The odd thing is, it isn’t new.

The odd thing is, Hamid has always, always, _always_ kissed him like this.

(The odd thing is, Zolf has always, always, _always_ kissed him in the exact same way.)


End file.
